


Hues and Signals

by theblindtorpedo



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Insecurity, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Mystery Trio, One Shot, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4856651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sleep deprived Fiddleford falls into Stanley's hands and the results are far from what he expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hues and Signals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Princessedelarue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princessedelarue/gifts).



He shook the match out, watching the remaining smoke dissolve into the night. Cigarette clenched between his lips, Stan leaned back against the hard wood. He had seen Ford stumble into bed about half an hour ago, but he respected his brother enough not to smoke in the house. Ford despised it and he had good reason to. Stan had no doubt he’d end up with tumors in his lungs and a voice rougher than sandpaper, while his brother stayed chipper and healthy. He deserved it probably.

But cigarettes let him be calm. They gave him something to focus on, without the stress of performance. There was so little in his life he did right. He wanted to do right. At least he could smoke a cigarette.

He surveyed the yard. Gravity Falls at night was ominous. The woods were deep and dark, sucking light into a void that promised cryptic surprises. The road that led to town lay out invitingly, a challenge stained blue. Everything was tainted with dirt or shadows.

Except, he noticed, a bicycle chained to the porch. Even without the name plate Stan had seen the old machine enough times to recognize it: Fiddleford McGucket’s bicycle. The middle-aged scientist was an absolute riot to watch, careening in to work every day, bouncing up and down, gangly limbs propelling him at a breakneck speed as if the mere thought of caution was alien to him.

The bicycle’s chain gleamed. It was awfully late. Shouldn’t the Doc be home by now? Ford was asleep, so what could his assistant still be doing?

Here was something to focus on.

Stan tossed the cigarette out onto the gravel, leaving it to burn itself out as he turned his back on the night. Re-entering the Shack he began the long climb down to the laboratory, the most natural place to check. Fiddleford rarely came up into the main building, and when he did it was only ever for quick bathroom breaks or snacks.

Perhaps that was the source of Stan’s recent fixation. Fiddleford’s sporadic appearances were like throwing scraps to a dog; a dog that does not realize how hungry it is until given a little to eat. A smile, a nod, a conversation: each day Stan found himself desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of that small frame and that beaming face. He excessively cleaned the room with the door to the lab. He cooked good smelling foods to try and lure the scientist up. He broke clocks just so he could watch Fiddleford fix them. _I need to see you. I need to see you. I need to see you._

He had tried surreptitiously hanging about the lab before, but found it ultimately depressing. Too much science, all those formulas and construction he didn’t, and could never, understand. Ford and Fiddleford talked their own language that flowed over his head. He recognized that feeling that sent his stomach churning. Jealousy. No, for his own peace of mind he could not be in the lab, lest all the old insecurities come crashing down upon him. Down there they manifested in uncomfortably familiar form. Ford. His brother had all of it, the intelligence, the control, the good intentions, and the same face. So, the question strangled his heart: how could Stanley Pines be worth even a second of Fiddleford McGucket’s time when the good doctor had Stanford? He hated resenting his brother. Much safer to be above ground, where such thoughts could torment him less.

But Ford was asleep now and there was definitely someone in the lab. A white light outlined the doorway as Stan reached the lowest level. A small hum, like a content animal, reached his ears.

“Hey?” he called out, easing open the door.

There was a figure slouched over a desk, head resting on a pad of paper. Tweed jacket, bony shoulders, greying temples, the person was immediately identifiable. Stan approached with caution. The man was not asleep, but appeared to be in a stupor. Half lidded, unfocused eyes peered up at Stan from under skewed glasses as the fluffed head was slowly lifted.

“Stanford, s'that you?“

It was idiotic, the bitterness that washed over him. It made sense that he’d ask for Ford, that Ford would be the first person he’d expect to see. But was he so unremarkable that Fiddleford could not recognize him?

“Try the other one.”

No reply. The awkwardness was excruciating static; Stan thought he could hear it crackling, adding to the mechanical humming of the room.

“Are you okay?” he eventually asked, breaking Fiddleford’s silence. He hoped his voice didn't betray his feeling of dejection.

“Yes. Yes. I’m fine," Fiddleford said, staring past Stan's shoulder, as if he were trying to convince himself more than the man before him. "Just been working hard, haven’t slept very much. You know how it is. I just need to get home.” He made to stand, staggering slightly. Stan caught him by the armpits. Fiddleford moaned weakly in protest, but his eyes closed as his head lolled forward. Stan felt his hands burning where he gripped at Fiddleford’s chest. He turned his face towards the dark outline of the elevator as he helped the other man stumble along. But although he could avoid Fiddleford’s eyes, he could not avoid the feeling of dry breaths drifting over his collarbone.

Fiddleford had spent many a night in the third bed, and in Stan’s opinion letting him sleep in the shack was preferable to driving out this late. Now the two made slow progress into the higher part of the house. The soft creaking and Fiddleford’s huffs were the only sounds until they reached the wide attic.

“Why is this happening to me?” Fiddleford asked suddenly. For the first time since the basement Stan peered down, finding a pained expression on Fiddleford’s face.

“Don't worry, I gotcha. You’re gonna be okay." The consolation rolled off his tongue before he knew what he was saying and, with a flood of fear, he realized he could not be sure if what he said was true. Perhaps Fiddleford was thinking of a problem beyond his current exhaustion. What did he know about the man on his hip? Not much. But Stan knew he would say anything if he thought, even for a second, it would make Fiddleford happy. God, he was in too deep.

He steered the two of them so the smaller man could sit on the edge of the cot. The moonlight through the triangular window glinted upon Fiddleford’s glasses as Stan gently plucked them from his face to place on the cheap bedside table. Then he turned with a sigh, making to leave.

That was when he found himself unexpectedly pulled down onto the bed. Fiddleford’s wiry arms were surprisingly strong.

Stan could have struggled. He could have thrown the arms off him, yelled, fled, but instead he was paralyzed. He lay hunched, all his weight resting on his knees, breath ragged as fingers trailed up and down his spine. Perhaps it was better that now Fiddleford’s face was firmly planted in his neck, for then he could not see the blush that erupted across Stan’s face.

“How are you doing that, Stanford?” the engineer whined in his ear, “You smell just like him.”

“W-what?”

“I'm sorry, I just always wondered what it would be like t-to feel . . . to hold . . . " Fiddleford let out a deep shuddering breath. "I just want him so bad. I want . . . _Stanley._ ” The quietest of whispers in his ear felt like a shot of adrenaline straight into Stan's chest. The Southern drawl curled around the vowels of his name in jarring reverence. But before Stan could react the lips came, a gentle trail along the edge of his jaw. He couldn't leave, he didn't _want_ to leave. Soon the soft caress were replaced with a tongue that painstakingly traced the same lines. Stan groaned as Fiddleford lapped at the pulse in his neck. Nimble and determined hands stroked along his sides during such ministrations. They then pulled at his collar, exposing his shoulder to Fiddleford's mouth, before coming back to hold him flush against the man currently delighting in tasting him. Fiddleford's actions were slow, but surprisingly electric in their sensuality.

To his sudden horror, Stan found he was getting hard. And in their current position there was no way Fiddleford could be blind to his situation. Embarrassment and desire warred within him; it would be so easy, to grind down . . .

“McGuck-ah-“

The hands fisted in his jacket tightened in appreciation at their owner’s name, before a gentle tugging pulled him upwards so he was staring into the blue eyes that had preoccupied his thoughts for far too long. Except now those eyes were hollow with fatigue.

“What a good dream,” Fiddleford giggled, his voice tinged with uncharacteristic delirium. Stan was made harshly aware of how sleep deprived the poor engineer must be.

He had to stop this right now.

“Go to sleep.”He slowly extracted himself from the arms that were loosening their hold as weariness overwhelmed Fiddleford’s limbs. The engineer made no move to keep him from climbing off the bed. With the breaking of eye contact Fiddleford’s eyes fluttered shut, his arms fell onto the bed with a heavy exhale. Stan toed carefully to the open door; Fiddleford was already emitting small whistling snores as he started down the stairs.

He fell asleep that night wondering if Fiddleford would have tasted of coffee.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! ☺️
> 
> For more content like this, come check out www.fiddlestan.tumblr.com


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